


Hat Story

by chickwriter



Category: due South
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-10-19
Updated: 2008-10-19
Packaged: 2017-10-02 02:12:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chickwriter/pseuds/chickwriter





	Hat Story

Ray ran his finger around the inside brim of the Stetson, caressing the felt, the dry silk. It should have been damp with sweat, fresh off Fraser's head, holding the scent of the man who wore it like a shield, a symbol of truth, justice and the freakin' Canadian way. A symbol of his indestructibility. But the sweatband wasn't damp, because it was too late for that. Fraser was gone and it was too late for just about anything.

The corners of a couple of folded bills peeked out above the band, put back there after... Ray's hand brushed over them. Stupid Mountie, keeping his money and who knows what else inside that damned hat. For all Ray knew, he'd kept his heart in there, too. He must've, because Ray never saw it. Never touched it. Not even when...

Fuck. He had to stop doing this. Had to stop thinking about what could have been, what might have been, what _he_ never said, never _told_ him. Now, it was too fucking late and Ray Kowalski was still a fucking coward. Chickenshit. Yeah. Chickenshit Kowalski, just like what they'd called him on the playground when he was feet shorter, pounds lighter and wore even stupider glasses that the ones he had now.

_"What's the matter, Kowalski, too chicken to kiss her?" "Go on...do it. You like her, don't you?"  "Chicken..." "Queer". "Queerwalski wants to kiss you not her." "Hey, fuck you, you faggot, he's the queer one."_

He'd done it then, done what they'd dared him to, all the while trembling inside, shaking in his worn t-shirt, too short flood pants and ragged Converse high-tops, too afraid to back down in front of the other boys, needing to prove something, anything, throwing himself forward, not stopping to think. Stella, to his surprise, had kissed him back. The beautiful princess with long golden hair, like something out of a fairy story, hadn't laughed like the others. After that, he'd _had_ to keep going. Had to fall in love, had to make her the sunshine of his life, the star around which the skinny geek kid orbited, because that's what you were supposed to do when you were Damian and Barbara Kowalski's kid. Fall in love, get a girl, get married, have kids and make sure you didn't make waves; make sure you weren't _different_.

What he'd forgotten was that stars, for all their beauty, were supposed to remain unreachable, because if you finally did touch one, it would burn you; destroy the shell you'd built, tear apart the careful façade until she finally realized that the deeply hidden poet's soul held more than romantic words and dances by moonlight. Star--no, Stella--finally saw inside and burned the Kowalski dream to ashes. It wasn't her fault, really. She'd done him a favor. Only it took him too damned long to realize it, and now, he'd missed his chance.

The first day he met Fraser he told him that he was dying of waiting; now, he was just going to have to wait for the dying. He'd fucking waited too long. Waited for the right moment, for the time he could say that he never wanted a star, never wanted a golden haired princess except to look at. What he needed was someone to rip past the new shell he'd built, like a doctor cracking the ribs of a heart attack victim; someone to reach in and squeeze the heart that had stopped beating long ago; force it--_him_\--to live again.

He should have just fucking _told_ him. Instead, he'd said "symbolically", then hit him, made up with him, cried on his fucking shoulder and now, he had nothing left but the coulda, woulda, shouldas. Fucking stupid Mountie. Why'n hell had he had to go off like that? Get himself k---Fuck. He couldn't even think the word.

Fraser had once told him about talking to his dead dad in the closet. Ray had laughed at the idea, the unintended symbolism, brushed it off as the equivalent of an Inuit story. After all, the guy had conversations with a deaf half-wolf. Now, he'd give anything to go back. Delusional dead dad conversations and donut-eating half wolves. Anything. Even if it meant--

"Ray?"

He jumped up from his bed, hand gripping the edge of the Stetson, eyes blinking madly, clearing the tears clouding his vision.

"What the f---? You're...how...Oh, Christ. It’s like your dad, isn't it? You've come to live in my closet. Okay, okay..." Ray began to pace, Stetson in his right hand, left hand waving wildly in the air, quick steps eating up the space between them, then suddenly, moving him in the opposite direction, never let him get close enough to touch the vision that stood in his doorway backlit from the hall light, like some battered Gabriel, about to change Ray's very life.

"Ray."

"Okay, I get this, it's weird, but I can deal with this...I can..."

"Ray."

He whirled and stared at dead Fraser, squinting, trying to see. "Are you going to build an office? Because if you are, I really think you should get one of them airy chairs."

"Aeron?"

Fuck. Even dead, Fraser was correcting him.

He shrugged. "Whatever.  Just so you know. It's gotta be a high-class office, 'cause you gotta make up for not having stuff, Fraser. You didn't have anything fancy when you were alive. So, go to town, get yourself the air--Aeron chair, the nice wood desk...hey, do you think you can get broadband--"

"Ray." Fraser's voice interrupted.

"What, Fraser? I was on a roll here."

"Indeed." 

Fraser's ghost stepped into Ray's bedroom, a place he'd never been in life. If only Ray had had the freakin' balls...shit. He wondered if ghosts could...Kowalski, do not even go there.

"So you want me to move into your closet?" Fraser's voice held a trace of amusement. He stepped closer. Ray tried to stand his ground but couldn't, stepping back, his gaze caught by that hypnotic Mountie stare. Those damned smoky blue eyes. He could so easily get lost in them, forget that they weren't really there, that he wasn't real, not touchable, not....

Ray bumped up against the edge of the bed, and automatically held out the Stetson. "Uh, I kept the hat. They found it at the scene. I...I cleaned it...brushed it. You can't see the dirt anymo--."

Fraser kept moving forward, until he was just a foot from Ray, then just stood there, not moving, eyes staring at Ray, mouth twitching, chest moving just slightly with each breath. Ray just stared back, absorbing the quiet beauty of the man, wanting to take one last look, because he knew this whole damn thing was just a delusion, brought on by grief, by desire, by the craving infecting every inch of his body. He knew that when he finally woke up, this would only be a badgood dream, a final memory of the one that got away.

Fraser's left hand moved forward, the glacial motion invading the invisible bubble of Rayspace, as he grasped the edge of the hat brim. Ray gripped the hat tighter, couldn't let go, couldn't let the other man see the truth as the realization hit.

"You're _breathing_."

"I'm not dead, Ray."

Their words collided, crashing together like their bodies did only moments later, words tangling like their tongues, their breaths mingling in relief, in agony and ecstasy, hat forgotten, falling to the floor and rolling under the bed as they rolled on top of it.

_They told me you were...not my blood, Victoria...She_ killed _you...escaped from prison...found your hat...tracked her...I never told you....police shootout, she's dead...lost you...not lost...you're here...love you...love you..._

The first time it was all about bodies smashing together, sweat slick skin and friction and cocks straining for release, celebrating life, acknowledging love, mouths capturing each other's taste and heat, Ray losing himself in the reality as Fraser devoured Ray's mouth with possessive intensity, whispering "mine" into the willing lips, followed by "never let you go." Hands grabbing, wrapping around both of them, stroking rigid flesh, pumping a furious counterpoint to beating hearts until finally, too soon, they both broke, Ray following Fraser, as always, hot wetness coating both their bellies and chests.

Fury then became gentleness, initial need sated, replaced by the need for discovery. Ray stared, unable to keep from watching his own hand trace the contours of Fraser's body, skin soft and snowy, a contrast to his own, feeling Fraser's hand doing the same to him. As hands reached faces, they both blinked, smiled and leaned together, mouths meeting once again in benediction, deep slow kisses soon giving way to increasing heat.

Ray broke away, ignoring Fraser's soft protest.

"Let me do this," he said. "Please, Fraser."

"Anything, Ray." The soft words were more than permission and Ray smiled before sliding down his partner's body and taking Fraser's semi-hard cock into his mouth. Yeah. This was what he'd wanted for so long. Tasting Fraser. Taster's choice. He nearly laughed at the thought. Fraser was so much more than an instant coffee...even if you added chocolate. He licked some more, imagining what he could do with a little more time and some chocolate syrup. Proper preparation and all that.

Ray lost himself in the fantasy, sucking and licking Fraser's cock, tasting the bitter-salt fluid that was so much better than chocolate, knowing that finally, he was getting what he'd wanted for so very long. Fraser's hand twisted in Ray's hair, incoherent grunts the only vocabulary either of them needed right now. When Fraser arched his back and came, Ray just swallowed, taking him in, making another connection.

Sleep followed more kissing, then Ray woke to Fraser reciprocating, that beautiful talented mouth making Ray forget about not having, forget about pretending, forget about ever being anything other than the other half of this very special duet. Ray soon lost all pretense of coherent thought as Fraser began to hum, and the hand that wasn't already helping to drive him insane slid underneath and behind and cupped his balls, stroking and caressing him into a white-hot oblivion.

Hours later, after sleep claimed them again and the first, second and third waves of reconnection passed, Benton Fraser placed a gentle kiss on Ray Kowalski's forehead.

"You kept my hat."

"Yeah."


End file.
